I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. She was slowed down by the icy wind that punctuated itself in screams around houses and trees. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch.
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